


From the East to the North

by littlehuntress



Category: Legends of the Wild Hunt
Genre: Folklore, Gen, fairy folk, mix and match, myths and legends, poetry references, psychopomp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-03 10:59:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6608167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlehuntress/pseuds/littlehuntress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At night they ride across the sky in black horses hunting for souls, stalking in the dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From the East to the North

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Night-Mare (Aoife)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aoife/gifts).



The Yule logs burn in the hearth under sizzling flames, fire lighting and warming the inside of cottages, embers dancing in between shadows, coloring with yellows and reds. The midwinter air drifts around and howls on the outside, shaking the leaves of tall trees in the dark. The tops quiver with unseen force. But everything else around is silent, motionless. The woods' quietness is only a cover for the dangerous rustling taking over, dogs bark loudly like an answer in the face of a threat. Of the unknown and powerful seeking to reach forward.

_Black horses, Gwyn and the huntsmen, white hounds, the hours will pass._

It's then when the wild souls break from the sky, sweep down in black horses, their hooves shaking the quiet, trampling over the vastness of the firmament. Gwyn ap Nud rides at the front, guides his men on another hunt. A pack of hounds howling with the wind, crimson ears like blood and coats white like freshly fallen snow. The tylwyth teg follow their King. Clamoring and rising. They are ready for a night where is dangerous for any mortal to roam outside. It's better locked inside. The signs of another world clearly etched in the atmosphere, magic with no bounds. The horde of men and horses and hounds cause a tumult, shake the darkness around them. Pandemonium up in the night sky.

The battlefields are bathed in red, many fallen soldiers slain and robbed of breath. Going, gone. Britain's lost soldiers will join another world, forever below. No one knows battle and war better than Gwyn ap Nud, who commands with a shout like thunder. His giant black horse, the torment of battle, along with his huntsmen wander the earth in search of lost souls to bring them forth to the grave. To take them to their final resting place. 

They lurk outside, ready to capture and take away with them those souls belonging to another realm. Mortal men and women cower inside their houses, afraid of the noise and the specters rising for the night, afraid this might be their last breath I f they peek outside. The sick and the dying sealed behind closed doors and barred windows, protected with iron and salted floors. Lips tight and quiet as a mouse, hoping the hunt won't raise their souls in their sleep, praying they won't be pulled to join them in their wild pursuits. 

_Can you hear them? Can you breathe without disturbing the night? Last until dawn?_

People keep silent listening to the sound of the hooves after they give chase, probably finding another one to take. The tylwyth teg contort into a nightmare, faces grim, their hair still as soft and light as day. Gwyn always at the head, unleashing the huntsmen over unsuspecting ones. No one can run away. All the neighbors and villagers stay quiet, children close to their mother's chests.

They know they can't shake them off, the hunt will find you if they want to. You can't run because there is nowhere you can hide. Try keeping the night on the other side. Gwyn's kin wants souls. Thirty men hunting, riding and raiding. Spirits and nature converging in pitch black dark. Melding, folding over each other.

The veil between good and evil falls, for neither is Gwyn the darkness or the light, but the one who braves amidst the skies to bring forever rest. Moves between life and death. Speaks with phantoms. He is the middle ground. Ruler of Tor. King and God. He is neither dark or light. 

Fear is what harvests in the heart of men when they look up and they don't find stars but ghosts. Immortal travelers, stalkers of the night. 

Listen, it is the hunt covering every inch of hunting ground. The countryside bathed in a storm, raging like the hounds. Taking every newly dead away. Evildoers meeting their end. 

Is it the darkness of the night or the actions of a summoner who have brought Gwyn and his men? Is it the date or the thunder and rain? Is it the souls? Is it for a day or two? They'll go through the woods, travel through air and land. Whispers in the wind. Spirits that can't be ignored. 

The fair Gwyn, hero of hosts, chases after those who will go back to the underworld with them. The ones ready for a life beneath the ground. The calvacade doesn't stop their search, go from one point to the other. Up and down, north and south, east and west. Until they reach the depths of the earth again. Until they're back in Avalon toasting and eating, a banquet made for conquerors. Heroes and legends and Gods. 

For Gwyn is alive and they're in their graves. For Gwyn is alive and the hunt rises. Life and death meeting in the end. Silence, the hush hush of the wind still shaking trees, making the world dance like the souls being lifted from battered bodies, like souls purged and collected. 

The hours pass, tick by, the noises don't stop, and the night is as endless as a bad dream you can't shake off even when your eyes are open. Their ears pressed to the wall, fear keeps them inside, but outside the hunt continues and Gwyn only takes those favored by death. Gwyn doesn't unleash war on the world, keeps life like a treasure. Their panic and horror should fade but it's hard when the wind is speaking, the earth is shaking below their feet. Listen, more than a dozen black horses straight from the place of the death. The hours pass and the beggining and the end shake hands. 

The logs are almost ashes, sinners shake in their boots, asking for Gwyn and his men to come and go without a visit to them. For the morning sun to force its way through darkness and keep them safe. Shut, shut inside never wander outside when the bad omens are rising in the south. When Gwyn and the faery folk are thirsty for a hunt.


End file.
